


There's More to Love (Than Boy Meets Girl)

by merle_p



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: Bookstores, F/F, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Canon, Pre-Femslash, Roommates, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4134756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bromley moves out on a Wednesday in August, and suddenly, Steph finds herself at a bit of a loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's More to Love (Than Boy Meets Girl)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sonicshambles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonicshambles/gifts).



> Sonicshambles, happy Night on Fic Mountain! I was so excited to be assigned to you, for reasons you'll understand once authors are revealed :) I only hope you like this!
> 
> Title is a line from the Communards' song "There's More to Love"

Bromley moves out on a Wednesday in August, and suddenly, Steph finds herself at a bit of a loss. It's not as if their arrangement wasn't always supposed to be temporary, it's not even like it wasn't about high time he found his own place, because she'd got sort of fed up with not having her bed to herself. 

Of course, technically there was a sofa-bed in the living space for Bromley to sleep on - but more often than not, they'd come home late and be too tired to set up his bed; or the living room floor would be cluttered with all sorts of stuff that made it impossible to fold out the sofa; and so he'd inevitably gravitate towards the right side of the mattress in her narrow bedroom three nights out of four. Truth be told, she doesn't think she has ever slept in a bed with the same person that often before, and she and Bromley are not even fucking. 

It is also blatantly obvious that Bromley has never lived on his own before. He is a sweet boy, neither inconsiderate nor particularly messy, but he is used (in the way only blokes ever are) to having his mother clean up after him, to having her do his laundry, to having his dinner set in front of him. And Steph adores that boy, she really does, but there had been a point where she knew that if she had to remind him to do the dishes one more time, she was going to have a fit. 

Now she's got the flat, and the bed, to herself again. There are no smelly shoes in the hallway and no one to leave the toothpaste uncapped in the bathroom, and there is really no reason for her to feel as lost and restless as she does. 

She tells all this to Jonathan, while she's drinking tea out of a chipped purple mug with a picture of Lady Di on the front, and watching him mend tears and holes in a pile of shirts that, from the look of them, all seem to belong to Gethin. 

Jonathan smiles at her in a way that appears amused, but thankfully not at all mocking, and removes a pin from between his lips before he answers. 

"It must be difficult," he shrugs. "You two have become close."

"We are still friends," Steph insists, both because it's important and because it's the truth. "We see each other all the time. Only –"

"The flat feels empty," Jonathan nods, as if he understands exactly what she means. She doesn't think it proper to ask him how he knows this, though, so she simply pulls a face in agreement and takes a sip from her mug. 

"How is work, then?" Jonathan asks, and neatly folds the pale green dress shirt he's been working on before setting it aside and reaching for his own cup. 

She shrugs. "It's all right," she says, without much enthusiasm. It's not. She hates her job at the vegan café: there are too many doe-eyed lesbians, too many twits who think they can save the world with flaxseed and coconut oil, and she is not good enough at being polite and patient with strangers who keep pissing her off with unreasonable requests. 

Jonathan tilts his head, and she wonders if he's going to call her out on her lie, but in the end, he just says lightly: "Seems to me that you might need a change in your life, love."

She reaches out and fiddles with the dark-blue t-shirt on top of the pile until Jonathan gently tugs it from her hand. She watches the careful way he handles the shirt, as if he's really touching Gethin rather than a piece of clothing belonging to him, and tries to ignore the twinge in her chest. 

"Maybe," she says vaguely, because there is no way she can tell Jonathan that she envies him. She's not enough of a selfish twat to ever say it out loud (especially now that she knows why Jonathan was so out of sorts a year ago, now that she knows about the dark cloud looming over their heads), but still, she can't help but feel wistful at seeing the private smiles and quiet touches between Jonathan and Gethin that have been so much more frequent since LGSM changed all their lives. 

Or rather, everyone's life except hers. 

She feels as if after the spectacular event that was Pride 1985, everybody else has moved on with their lives, moved on to something different, better. Jonathan and Gethin have always kept an open house for likeminded people and friends, but now they are open in their affection for each other as well, in a way they weren't before. Zoe and Stella are happily committed to their extreme form of co-dependent co-habitation, and Reggie and Ray practically do the same in male – minus the veganism, that is. Mark has been diving headfirst into every new political project that comes his way, with Mike close on his heels, even though Steph is sure that Mark is still not shagging him, the poor sod. Jeff has discovered Buddhism, of all things, and Joe is busy reinventing himself as an out and proud gay man. He's been seeing this bloke or that after his shifts at a small patisserie in Camden, and Steph is the last person on Earth who would begrudge him a bit of fun with John Thomas, after everything he's been through, but that does not change the fact that at times, she can't help but feel like she was somehow left behind. 

Because she cannot tell Jonathan any of this, she gets to her feet, refills her mug, lights a cigarette and pretends to ignore the thoughtful looks he shoots her over the seam of the blue shirt. 

"Gethin needs someone to help with the shop," he finally says conversationally when she stubs out her cigarette on the window sill and flops down onto one of the rattan chairs. "His part-time assistant just left for a trip to India to become a yoga teacher."

It takes Steph a moment to understand what this has to do with her, but when she does, she gives Jonathan a look as sceptical as she can manage. 

"I'm not good with people," she finally says slowly, and tries not to feel unsettled by the grin Jonathan throws her way.

"What a coincidence," he says innocently. "That's what Gethin always says."

 

She quits her job at the vegan café the day a customer yells at her for putting rice milk instead of almond milk into his chai. Two days later, she finds herself taking the outdated flyers off the noticeboard in the backroom of the bookshop while she waits for the coffee maker to stop gurgling and listens to Gethin talk to a customer in the front. 

It's true that Gethin is just as not-good-with-people as Steph, but they are awful at it in opposite ways that – as it turns out – complement each other quite favourably. Gethin tends to get embarrassed and quiet, Steph gets snarky and defensive, and somehow, between the two of them, they have all difficult customer situations covered. 

"Together, you function like one properly socialized person," Jonathan teases, but he presses his palm against the back of Gethin's neck and kisses the top of his head as he winks at Steph, so she knows he's not trying to be a prick. 

On the best days, working at Gay's the Word means having a chat with friends over tea and selling books she actually likes to people she likes as well. On the worst days, she curses and grumbles over the sodding paperwork Gethin makes her do and smokes one cigarette after another. 

Whether it's the good or bad kind of day, when lunchtime comes around, one of them climbs the stairs to the flat to fetch their lunch, and they eat at the desk in the backroom in companionable silence. When Jonathan is out rehearsing for a play, Steph throws together massive cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and carries them downstairs on a large plate with a fake gold rim. When Jonathan is home, Gethin disappears for half an hour before returning with a container of something delicious or other that actually requires cutlery to eat. 

Except one time, during the final days of September, Gethin shakes his head when she meaningfully points her chin at the clock on the wall reading half past noon. 

"We can't go upstairs today," he says awkwardly, and then, after a pause: "Jonathan is not feeling so well."

The heart-wrenching panic Steph feels descend on her suddenly makes it difficult to breathe. "Jesus Christ," she blurts out. "Is he … ?"

She doesn't even know how to continue, so it's a good thing that Gethin shakes his head quickly to stop her train of thought. 

"Nothing like that," he says, and she feels herself go weak with relief. "He's just –" he shrugs. "He gets a bit depressed."

He wears a lopsided smile, but his eyes look sad; so Steph walks down the street and brings back two orders of fish and chips from the shop on the corner, so greasy that the newspaper wrapping is turning soggy by the time she returns. Gethin doesn’t say anything, but he gives her a grateful smile in between bites of fried cod, and Steph thinks it's time to acknowledge not only that Gethin has no intention of sacking her any time soon, but that she likes working at the shop far better than she would have expected – if only because she really knows a lot more about books than she does about kale crisps, after all. And even if the occasional doe-eyed flaxseed lesbian finds her way into the shop, Gethin is brilliant at dealing with those, so it works out all right. 

 

Her mother rings her on a grey weeknight in October, and Gethin has to send her home after lunch break the following day, because she is scaring the customers with her scowl, or so he claims. After that, she pulls herself together enough to not bite anyone's head off, but she still occasionally has to fight the desperate need to break something expensive for the rest of the week. 

Bromley meets her for a pint at the pub down the street on Friday after work. He has a massive love-bite on the side of his neck that he keeps trying to cover with his hand once she points it out, and grins sheepishly as he tells her about his most recent conquest. Of course he is far too nice to ever call it that, but Christ, the men of London certainly seem to fancy the naïve inexperienced type – and she means this in the best possible way. 

"My mum calls me every other week," he says when Steph has said everything she has to say about her mother – that is, quite a bit. "I think she's still waiting for me to change my mind about the gay bit." He takes a sip from his cider, looking thoughtful and a tad sad. "I wonder if she'll keep calling once she finally realizes that me being a pouf is not just a phase."

Steph shakes her head. "My mum is never going to get it," she says, less angry now and more resigned. Talking to Bromley always makes her feel at least a tiny bit better. 

"Never say never," Bromley smirks. "Perhaps it'll be like Gethin's mum – wait sixteen years and then show up on her doorstep. It worked for him, didn't it?"

Steph huffs. "You wouldn't say that if you knew my mum," she says, and looks down into her Guinness. That is something else she cannot talk to Gethin about, who still lights up like a Christmas tree every time his mother comes to London for a visit. He deserves that, and he doesn't need her whinging about her bloody gay-hating mum. Bromley, on the other hand, has not seen his parents since he walked out with a duffel bag over his shoulder during his niece's christening. Bromley does not have much faith in family these days. 

"You should come over sometime," he says eventually. "See my new place. I could cook us dinner."

She raises her brows. "I figured you'd want to spend your nights with your sweetheart."

"It's not quite like that," he says, flushing in a way that honestly shouldn't be so endearing. "Besides," he shrugs, then gestures back and forth between him and her. "This is different. Isn't it?" 

"Yes," she says, and smiles. "Yes, it definitely is."

 

The first proper autumn rainstorm of the season hits London, and Steph and Gethin pull two stools close to the counter and spend the morning bent over the books, steaming mugs of tea framing their elbows. It's not something Gethin would usually do during opening hours, but no one is going to come out in this weather, and they know it will be a long, slow day. 

Except then the door slams open with a gush of wind and rain that makes them shiver despite their woollen jumpers, and a figure stumbles over the threshold like an errant leaf blown in by the storm, wrapped into a long raincoat, bright orange and far too big for the narrow frame, hood pulled down and obscuring the person's face. 

Steph and Gethin stare as the figure shakes like a wet dog, raindrops flying everywhere, and Gethin gets the pinched look on his face that means he is concerned for the safety of his books. 

He still asks "How may I help you?", because he is polite like that and also knows how to run a business – that's the difference between him and Steph, who would not have any qualms about telling someone to bugger off. 

That's when the intruder pushes back the orange hood, revealing a head of long blond hair falling in heavy damp strands down on a set of bony shoulders, and Steph almost spills her tea all over the ledger.

"Gail?" she blurts out, gobsmacked, and Gethin simply stares, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

Gail wipes the water off her face with a flat palm and gives them a grin, slightly wobbly but cheerful. 

"I wouldn't send a bloody dog outside in this sodding rain," she says. "But it is good to see you, loves."

 

Later, upstairs, when Jonathan has wrapped a blanket around Gail's shoulders and pressed a hot cup of tea with whisky into her freezing hands; when Mark and Mike have arrived, dishevelled and out of breath from taking the stairs two steps at a time, Gail is ready to answer their questions. 

"Everyone's been getting on with their lives," she says, "since the strike ended and you stopped visiting. Sian is in college. Cliff's a gay. Dai and Margaret are having a baby, and Gwen is writing a Welsh vegan cookbook." She grins faintly, pulls up her shoulders. "Only my life kept going on like it did before. It was time for a change."

"So you decided to move to London?" Mike asks, carefully, and Gail frowns and takes another gulp of her tea.

"I left Alan," she explains, and they stare at her, eyes wide. "Hefina said getting out for a bit might do me good."

"What did he do?" Steph asks urgently, already on the verge of anger, but Gail merely shrugs. 

"Puked into the kitchen sink one too many times," she says dryly. "It's not fair that I should clean up vomit every weekend for the rest of my bloody life, now, is it?"

"So what are you going to do now?" Mark asks, in the speculating way of his that means he's already playing a hundred possibilities out in his head. 

"The daughter-in-law of Hefina's second cousin got me work at a hotel," Gail says. "Cleaning hotel rooms can't be worse than cleaning up after Alan, can it? At least I'll get paid for it."

"Where are you staying?" Jonathan asks, and she grimaces uncertainly. 

"I don't know yet," she admits. "I thought one of you might have a mate who knows a place where I could stay, just for a while? I'm not picky, and I can pay."

Gail looks up at them from underneath her damp hair, hopeful and determined. Her gaze wanders from one to the next, finally coming to rest on Steph, and the corners of her mouth lift in a smile. Steph is reminded of the way she had laughed after pressing Steph against a wall and snogging her breathless, happily, incredulously, with a surprised kind of abandon. 

"How do you feel about Brixton, then?" Steph asks, and Gail grins widely. 

"Brixton sounds bloody brilliant, love."

 

Gail moves in on a Wednesday in November, and suddenly, Steph's flat feels like home again. Because Gail was married to a git whose contribution to housework was to leave his muddy shoes in a heap on the doormat and vomit into the bathtub on Friday nights, Gail does not even ask before she takes on half of the cooking and the cleaning, and she is pleasantly appreciative of living with someone willing to do the same. 

The first weekend after she moves in, she sits down in a kitchen chair and hands Steph a pair of scissors, and later they share a spliff while they sweep up the piles of long, golden hair and then just sit around and wait until it's time to rinse out the strawberry-pink dye. They dress in mesh and leather and go out dancing, drinking cheap beer and trying to convince Bromley that eyeliner is not just for gals. If Gethin notices when Steph shows up to work hungover on Monday, he doesn't say, only smiles quietly and goes to put on a fresh pot of coffee for her. 

Technically there is a sofa-bed in the living space Gail is supposed to sleep on, but more often than not, they stay up late and are too tired to pull out the sofa after the third bottle of plonk. Later, a 1000-piece puzzle occupies the space on the coffee table, growing a little bit every day, and it feels like too much of a risk to push the table out of the way before they've put all the pieces together. So Gail inevitably gravitates towards the right side of the mattress in Steph's narrow bedroom, and Steph finds that sleeping in a bed with the same person three nights out of four is really not so bad.


End file.
